Pleasantly Dead

by Alguire, Judith

  “I’m sure she didn’t,” said Rudley, who wasn’t sure at all.

  Brisbois stepped aside. “You can come in, but don’t touch anything. My officers took a good look, though. I don’t recall any mention of personal mail. There were a few invoices for her artwork and ads for workshops. That sort of thing.”

  Pearl bristled. “Margaret wouldn’t mix her business and personal mail. I suppose you got that stuff you’re talking about from her desk.”

  “Yes.”

  “Margaret keeps her personal mail in a little binder with her writing materials. When she’s down here she keeps it in that little footstool over there.” She pointed to a small ottoman covered in green brocade. “The lid flips up. Margaret’s had that stool since she was a girl. She used to keep her letters from her boyfriends there to keep them away from her brother.”

  “Did you know about this, Rudley?” Brisbois raised his brows and received only a glare. “Of course, you didn’t.” He pulled on gloves, knelt, and lifted the lid. He took out a packet of letters. “Here’s one from Ralph Dutton.”

  “That’s her brother.”

  “The one who used to snoop into her mail,” Rudley said.

  “He’s in import-export,” Pearl said. “He travels the world, searching for treasures.”

  “He imports plastic junk from China.”

  “And this one,” Brisbois said, “is a postcard from Pearl Dutton. ‘Arriving village 6:00 am. Meet me.’ She knew you were coming, Miss Dutton.”

  “I told you so.”

  Brisbois shuffled the envelopes. “Ralph doesn’t have much to say. ‘Dear Margaret, here’s some pictures of me in Indonesia.’ And here are the pictures.”

  “A man with a gut should never wear a red sarong,” Rudley murmured.

  “And here’s one,” said Brisbois, “postmarked Coventry, England. Mailed ten days ago. From Alberta Beckwith.”

  “That’s Margaret’s chum from school,” said Pearl.

  Brisbois unfolded the letter, smoothed the paper. “‘Dear Margaret, Blah, blah, blah…’” He paused, eyebrows lifting. “‘And about that other matter, Margaret. Don’t give him another cent’.”

  Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson pulled the canoe around the bend and headed back to the inn.

  “Look.” Simpson pointed out a flock of ducks feeding in the reeds. He kept up a brisk patter, commenting on the foliage, the quaint cottages, and rock formations, hoping to encourage her to slow down and enjoy a trip he thought had the potential to be quite romantic. To no avail. Miss Miller seemed hell-bent on getting back to the inn in record time. “We’re missing some wonderful scenery,” he said finally.

  “Another time, Edward. We have an investigation to pursue.”

  “It is a bit fun. We can’t forget that poor chap is dead, though.”

  “We can have a memorial service after we find out who he is.”

  “Quite.”

  Miss Miller cut straight to the dock, ignoring a pair of loons Simpson was straining to look at.

  Lloyd was digging in the flower beds beside the path.

  “Do you want us to bring the canoe up?” Simpson called out. He stepped onto the dock, extending a hand to Miss Miller.

  “It can stay tied up until everybody’s in.”

  “Do you work all day and all night?”

  “Work when there’s work.”

  “Do you look after all the boats, Lloyd?” Miss Miller asked.

  “Do. Make sure there’s no dirt on them, no squeaks in the oar locks, no slivers in the oars.”

  “And all the canoes are exactly the same?”

  “Every single one.”

  “There isn’t one with a fish on it or a bear or a set of numbers?”

  “Nary a one.”

  Miss Miller smiled. “Thank you, Lloyd. He doesn’t know about the mismatched one,” she whispered to Simpson as they walked away. “If we can find out where that canoe came from, we might be able to identify our victim.”

  “Possibly.”

  “Right.” She stopped, thought for a moment. “Here’s what we’re going to do, Edward.”

  Brisbois ushered Pearl and Rudley out of the High Birches, motioning them to sit on the glider. He took out his notebook, turned to a fresh page, and wrote the date, time, location, and names of the principals.

  “Did Mrs. Rudley mention this letter?”

  Rudley shook his head.

  “Not to me,” said Pearl.

  “You say this Alberta Beckwith is a friend of your wife’s from school.”

  “Birdie,” said Pearl. “We always called her Birdie.”

  “What do you think Birdie meant by that last sentence?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Do either of you know Birdie well?”

  “I’ve known her since she was a child,” said Pearl. “I was at her wedding. She married a clergyman.”

  “Rudley?”

  “I’ve known her for years. She worked at the hotel I trained at in London. She and Margaret shared a flat.”

  Brisbois motioned to Creighton who was lingering by the cottage. “Creighton, take Miss Dutton over there.” He indicated a bench a few yards away. “Take her statement. See if you can get a phone number for Birdie.

  “Now, Rudley,” he said when they were alone, “what do you think the letter means and please spare me the ‘don’t ask mes’ and ‘how in hell should I knows’.”

  “Maybe she’s referring to the prices at the grocery store.”

  “How much money does your wife have?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “A million?”

  “No.”

  “Half a million?”

  “No.”

  “How about a hundred thousand?”

  “She might.”

  “You strike me as an old-fashioned man, Rudley. I find it hard to believe you don’t know your wife’s net worth.”

  Rudley shrugged. “Margaret inherited a substantial sum from her grandmother.”

  “And she never told you how much?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “No curiosity at all?”

  “Look. Her gran had just died. What was I supposed to say? ‘Sorry for your loss, Margaret. How much did the old doll leave you?’” He shrugged. “Besides, I was fond of Gwendolyn. In my own way.”

  “So you never asked.”

  “No. She never told me exactly. At least, I don’t think she did. After her gran died, she said she had some money to put in if I were still keen on us opening an inn.”

  “So she gave you the money.”

  “She gave it to the lawyer.”

  “But you own the Pleasant.”

  “We own it jointly.”

  “But you manage it.”

  “We both manage it.”

  “You’ll have to pardon me, but I don’t see much evidence of her involvement.”

  Rudley gave him a withering look. “That’s because she isn’t here.”

  “What I’m getting at is you seem to do the lion’s share of the work. She putters around with the florist and takes off whenever she’s fed up with you.”

  “Lucky for you Margaret isn’t here.”

  “You’re the boss. Everyone consults with you.”

  Rudley rolled his eyes. “Yes, they all consult with me. Then they do pretty much what they please.” He folded his arms. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, Brisbois. The inn runs like a clock. I do what I do. Margaret does what she does. Gregoire cooks. Lloyd gardens. Tiffany housekeeps. Tim waits — when he’s not auditioning for walk-on parts. Each of us makes a contribution to the smooth functioning of the Pleasant.”

  Brisbois took out a cigarette, offered one to Rudley who accepted. “It’s a nice place, Rudley. You should be proud.”

  “It’s the finest inn between Toronto and Montreal.”

  “But it could be better if you had more capital. I mean, anything could be better.”

  Rudley waved the smoke away.
“I know what you’re getting at. I’m not an imbecile. The answer is no. I haven’t been quizzing Margaret about her finances, trying to coax her into adding a casino, booking Céline Dion and Wayne Newton. We like the inn pretty much the way it is. Margaret’s money is Margaret’s money. To do with as she pleases. Buy a Jag, take a trip to Timbuktu, if that’s what she wants.”

  “And you wouldn’t object.”

  “I wouldn’t be keen on the Jag. She’d probably run herself up a tree with a high-powered vehicle like that. But Margaret wouldn’t buy a Jag. She’s not extravagant. What she spends the most on is her paints and she more than recoups that with her sales. She’s very good, you know.”

  Brisbois stubbed his cigarette out on the ground, then pocketed the butt as Rudley glared. “So you have no idea what the letter refers to?”

  “Maybe it refers to the gallery owner. Maybe Margaret told Birdie he wanted a bigger commission.”

  “Does Margaret usually talk to you about her letters from Birdie?”

  Rudley avoided Brisbois’ gaze. “She’ll get a letter and say so and so wrote and so forth. And then she’ll go into detail about so-and-so’s kids and so forth. And so-and-so’s mother and who’s getting married, divorced. Who died. There’s no reason I have to know every detail.”

  “So you really don’t pay attention to a word the woman says.”

  “Now, see here.”

  Brisbois took a step away. “You don’t know where your wife is. You don’t know what the letter means. You don’t know what she said about the cat. You know nothing about this woman’s life. You know something, Rudley? There isn’t a thing about my wife’s life I’m not privy to.”

  “Now, that’s abnormal. Women always keep secrets from their husbands.”

  “Who told you that? Oprah?”

  “Margaret did.”

  “On the one and only time you were listening.” Brisbois tucked his notebook into his pocket. “I’ll be taking a look through your wife’s accounts.”

  “I don’t think you have the authority to do that.”

  Brisbois traced the line of his chin with his middle finger. “Rudley, you have a dead man in your wine cellar. Your wife is missing. Her abode has been broken into. We have a suggestive letter. I won’t have any trouble making a case with the judge. Besides, we may find out something that helps us find her.”

  Rudley looked miserable.

  “You can go about your business. But don’t put a foot outside the county line. Do you think you could educate your staff and guests about where those lines are?” He walked away without waiting for an answer.

  Pearl rejoined Rudley. “What’d he want to know?”

  “He was grilling me about Margaret’s finances.”

  Pearl strained to get a glimpse of the detectives as they disappeared behind the trees. “Creighton asked me about that, too. He wanted to know a lot more than was his business. And he asked me about Birdie.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing inflammatory. That she’s the proper clergyman’s wife. Does charity work. Has a dog she shows — ugly, bug-eyed animal with ears like a fruit bat’s. She’s absolutely besotted with him.”

  “Probably because he resembles Richard.”

  “I don’t know why a girl like Birdie married him. Must have done something sinful and sought redemption in marrying a minister.”

  “She married a pompous, tight-assed, humourless sod for redemption?”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Sounds too Catholic.” She tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m going down for a coffee.”

  Rudley sat down on the glider and stared at his feet. He couldn’t understand why Birdie married Richard either. Although, he thought, her father was a man of the cloth.

  Birdie had been the convention planner at the hotel. He’d met Margaret at one of her parties.

  He smiled a large, lopsided smile. He remembered that evening as though it were yesterday. Standing in a corner, looking grim to hide his bashfulness, thinking about how special this girl Margaret was — not putting on airs, witty without that jaded edge so many of Birdie’s friends admired. He thought she was the prettiest girl in the room, a full-bodied girl with chestnut hair, warm brown eyes, and rosy cheeks. He found the British insufferably class-conscious. But not Margaret. Social status didn’t matter a whit to her. It didn’t matter to him either. When anyone asked where he’d come from, he was proud to speak up and say Galt, Ontario. They could make of that what they wanted. He thought it was the snobbishness that soured him on the experience of managing a London hotel.

  He got up, jammed his hands into his pockets, and trundled down the hill. He almost stumbled over Pearl, who had stopped halfway down the slope. She was staring out over the lake, one hand raised to shield her eyes. “Is that Mr. Thomas out there?”

  “I believe it is.”

  “He’s caught two fish just while I’ve been watching.”

  “He’s a veritable fishing machine.”

  “He has such nice tight ears,” she said.

  “Do you want to do the talking this time?” Simpson pulled the car over at the seventh canoe-rental establishment and turned to Miss Miller, his eyes sparkling with merriment.

  She tucked her chin and gave him an oblique look. “I acknowledge the types who rent canoes don’t seem to want to have any truck with women.”

  “It’s their loss.” He got out of the car and went around to open the passenger door. He noticed she had waited for him after his third attempt. Perhaps she had decided the types who rented canoes also thought a woman should wait for the man to open the car door.

  The man working by the canoes glanced at them but didn’t come over. Miss Miller took a note from her purse and flashed it at Simpson like a Clue card.

  He nodded. “I think I’ve memorized the numbers.”

  Of the six places they’d visited, three had interesting logos — a moose, a duck, a leaping trout. One carried the name of the proprietor — Dack. The other two, with no imagination, used a serial number followed by a letter.

  They wandered toward the canoes. The man continued to ignore them.

  Miss Miller grabbed Simpson’s wrist. “Look.”

  He nodded.

  The man came over. “Can I help you?”

  “We’ve been thinking of purchasing a canoe,” Miss Miller said, slipping her arm through Simpson’s. “But we wanted to try one first. The different types and so forth.”

  He shrugged. “These are all the same, ma’am.”

  “Should we take one for a spin?” Miss Miller turned to the proprietor. “Do you rent by the hour?”

  “By the day.”

  She sighed. “Alex, why don’t we come back when we have more time?”

  “Splendid idea, Agatha.”

  “I suppose we’d need to sign a contract, leave a deposit.”

  “Just a rental agreement, ma’am.”

  “You don’t worry about someone stealing one?”

  “Sometimes. I had one stolen just the other night, as a matter of fact.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Simpson. “I suppose the police will catch the culprit.”

  The proprietor grimaced. “I doubt it. Whoever took it has probably painted over my number by now.”

  Simpson nodded. “Thank you for showing us around. We’ll come back when we have time to take one out.” He took Miss Miller’s arm. “Won’t we, dear?”

  “We will, Alex.”

  They backed away, waving.

  “We have to go back to the boathouse.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if we can find anything else interesting about the canoe.”

  “Such as?”

  “Fibres and so forth.”

  “I believe that sort of thing is called ‘evidence’,” he said. “We mustn’t tamper with evidence.” He looked at her as sternly as he could. “Elizabeth.”

  She smiled. “Don’t worry, Edward. I have a plan.”

  C
hapter Six

  Margaret Rudley knew where she was and feared her situation was rather desperate. It could take days before someone thought to look for her here. She was locked in a cabin at an abandoned lodge on the bad side of the lake. Bad in that the shoreline was jammed with weeds. Good for a wildlife sanctuary. Hopeless for swimming or launching a boat. Thick with mosquitoes and cursed with an obnoxious sulfur odour from a stagnant pond. The cottages huddled on little islands of hardpan connected by wagon roads. The remainder of the property was largely bog and quicksand.

  One moment, she was snug in her bed at the High Birches; the next, attacked by two men, bound hand and foot, gagged, and blindfolded. Some time later, one of the men returned. He dragged her from her cottage and shoved her into the back seat of her car. She knew it was her car because it smelled of lavender. She had purchased some in Middleton the day before and guessed a few sprigs had spilled onto the floor.

  Her captor brought her to the Whispering Pines, a ridiculous name given the decidedly unpinelike smells of sulfur, rotting wood, and mildew. He had loosened the shackles on her legs but left her hands tied quite tightly. He had fastened a thick rope around her waist and tossed it over a beam, allowing her a ten-foot circle of freedom. Rather like being a dog on a tie out, she thought. He had cut a small hole at the centre of the duct tape. She remained blindfolded. The door was locked from the outside. She had discovered this by throwing her shoulder into it several times.

  Her captor had left her a chamber pot of sorts — an empty lard bucket she assumed — that he had scavenged from the defunct kitchen. Since she had been captured in a knee-length nightgown, using it had not been impossible. He had left once and returned with a jug of Kool-Aid with a straw. The hole in the duct tape was just large enough to accommodate the straw. He then muttered something about it being 4:30 and left.

  He hadn’t been back since.

  By rubbing her head against the wall like an elk shedding velvet, she managed to dislodge the blindfold. It settled over her left eye, giving her a rakish air she might have appreciated if her circumstances had been less dire.

  She focused on staying calm and reviewed her options.

  At the moment, they seemed limited.